


Obdormition

by Clocketpatch



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: eleventy_kink, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocketpatch/pseuds/Clocketpatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I'm not here and you two bumble in you <i>will</i> get caught and I'll have to come in and fetch you <i>before</i> making my broadcast and then we'll be back to start with the risk factor. This route by-passes that step and is therefore vastly more efficient."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obdormition

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a meme fill. I apologize for the one-dimensional villain who exists only to make everyone miserable. There is disturbing content and references to less than consensual activities. You have been warned.

(I only wish someone would warn me when my brain decides to come up with these things)

* * *

  
It's a warm night, but cool enough after the blast furnace day that dew has formed across the lawn. The sound of hurried feet on wet grass is barely audible above the lust-enraged cricket chorus. The forced whispers, however, are caught by the still air and echoed against the cement courtyard walls:

"I still think that Amy and I should be doing this on our own. You said that the worst we'd get is a wrist slap, but if you get caught —"

"If I'm not here and you two bumble in you _will_ get caught and I'll have to come in and fetch you _before_ making my broadcast and then we'll be back to start with the risk factor. This route by-passes that step and is therefore vastly more efficient. Besides — " there is a green glow and a sharper buzz briefly competes with the crickets before vanishing along with the light. " — this is personal."

A female voice with a distinct Scottish burr butts into the conversation: "You keep shouting and waving your screwdriver about and the whole place is going to be down on us. Don't they have guards, or cameras or something?"

The green light reappears between three huddled figures. They are crouched beside a high, white stucco-painted wall. The wall appears grey-green in the shadows and the glow. There is a fountain tinkling softly somewhere nearby. The light illuminates only the fronts of the figures' faces; the collars of their shirts; the highlights of their hair. There is a woman and two men. Their pale faces are given the same grey-green shadows as the wall.

"Amy, Rory," says the man holding the light. His whisper is purposeful and steady. The crickets seem to hum out as he speaks. "These people don't need cameras, they don't need guards. Ninety-eight percent of the population doesn't know what they do, and if they do have an inkling they turn away because it doesn't concern _them_. The two percent who do know what goes on in this complex are making a profit or gaining… pleasure… from the proceedings, or they're running the proceedings in which case they clearly don't object. These people are utterly secure in what they are doing and _that_ is why we are going to stop them. That, and we already went over the big, nasty, spikey fence. Don't you remember the big, nasty, spikey fence? Not much need for extra security when you've got a big, nasty, spikey fence."

"Even so, once we're inside I would advise both of you to be very quiet. I don't want to waste time if you two get caught. I said _probably_ a wrist slap. You'd make them uncomfortable. Uncomfortable people are dangerous. Unpredictable."

"I'm getting uncomfortable crouching in this wet grass," the woman says. "We got the lecture back in the TARDIS: the bad guys are bad, we're to the rescue, so let's _go_ already… Quietly."

"Agreeing with the wife," says the other man. After a moment he rolls his eyes at the mouthed instructions the man with light is giving and adds: "Quietly."

"Quietly," the man with the light says touching his nose. He presses a button and the light blinks out.

Three shadows slip along the courtyard wall in an awkward crouch-shuffle. The light blinks and buzzes one last time and a previously hidden panel opens. The three shadows slip through, the panel slides shut with a soft click, and the courtyard is left once again to the insects, the grass, and the moon.

*

Inside is a corridor.

"A dark, spooky corridor, of course," says Rory with flat sarcasm.

The Doctor taps his nose in an exasperated attempt to remind his companions that they're supposed to be being stealthy. He then puts away his sonic and pulls out his portable sun-light generator rod. The corridor is suddenly bright as day.

"It's not dark now," the Doctor says. "And remember: quietly!"

The Doctor either doesn't notice, or chooses not to notice, the look his companions exchange at his display. They follow him down the corridor — quietly.

The walls are wood panelled. Real wood, not the fake paste on stuff, and nice wood too. It's dark and rich and its smell is sharp and vaguely tropic. The floor looks like it should creak but it doesn't. There are shelves and shelves of old books lined against one wall and gilt portraits on the other.

It's a strange contrast from the smooth white curves, immaculate lawns, and fountains of the courtyard. It's the kind of contrast only available to those with the money to move from style to style with style.

The portraits change as the trio advances. Some are oil, some are pastel. A few are inexpertly cropped and enlarged digital photographs which look uncomfortable in their rich frames. Further down, most of the portraits are 3D holo-paintings and their frames serve only as a base to project the full-bodied images into the corridor.

The ghostly holo-paintings turn and watch with glassy eyes as the intruders pass. There are men and women. There are children, elders, and adults. It is obvious that that not all, or even most, of the people pictured are blood-related. They are all human.

"Light maybe, but definitely still spooky," Amy mutters. "Why is it that everyplace we go always ends up being spooky?"

Something buzzes in the Doctor's jacket and, after a bit of fumbling, he retrieves his sonic to take a reading. He points it at a particularly reproachful holo-painting. It's been done with water colour and ink and the eyes seem far harsher than the medium should allow. The lines are sudden and sharp. There's a smudge across the cheekbone where the artist's hand brushed against the air by mistake.

"This is it," says the Doctor. He turns off his sun-light generator rod and stows it. The holo-paintings seems to gain extra life in the dark now that they are the only source of illumination. Their expressions become harder. Their following eyes and pursed lips are that much more ominous.

The Doctor lifts his sonic. It buzzes softly.

The water colour and ink holo-painting folds in on itself, becoming a narrow band of multi-toned light before vanishing with a faint electronic _brzipp_. The frame is suddenly nothing more than a mirror and an irregularly blinking LED. The Doctor presses the dark, reflective surface with one deft finger and the mirror parts like a curtain to reveal a door-less arch.

Beyond is another corridor. This one is bright, but no less spooky. The Doctor, Amy, and Rory enter. The cloth-like mirror bends back into place behind them. They observe.

It's very white; an attempt at medical sterility which is broken by the occasional grey smudge on the walls. There is a small pool of some orangish-red fluid congealing on the floor beside a vent. The air is chilly. It smells like an upscale bar opened its doors next to a stable. There is music playing; it's something cheerful and upbeat. It almost covers the crying. There are doors with small peepholes. Amy looks through one and then retreats.

"Oh god, oh god, that is _sick_."

Rory doesn't look. Instead he hugs his wife and whispers comfort into her hair.

The Doctor is silent, stony. He pulls a small electronic bauble from his jacket and mounts it on the peephole. It blinks and whirls. The Doctor pats it absently.

"This ends," he whispers. "Soon."

Then he strides angrily down the hall to confront the people who have created this place. He passes an invisible barrier and alarms go off. He does not alter his direction or his pace. Amy and Rory struggle to keep up.

A confused looking man in a plaid smoking jacket stumbles out of a door up ahead. His face is very red, his belt is very undone, and when his jacket flaps open it is clear that there is no shirt underneath.

"It's after hours," the man says stuffily. His eyes widen as the Doctor continues his approach. "You can't be here. It's after hours and you didn't sign in. Where is your membership card?"

"I don't have a card," says the Doctor. He pulls out his sonic and holds it in front of him. It flashes in tune with the alarm.

"You don't…" The man breathes sharply through his nose and screams something unintelligible. The lights start flashing red and blue. The up-beat music wars with the deafening klaxons. The Doctor's advance down the corridor is cut off as the floor falls away beneath him dropping the Time Lord into a pool of metallic orange liquid.

"Doctor!"

Amy and Rory rush forward. On the other side of the gap in the floor the man in the plaid smoking jacket runs away screaming that there are intruders come to blackmail him. The liquid in the hole smells harsh and chemical. The Doctor is floundering in it. He is under the surface. He is sinking. Rory gets down on his stomach and shoves his arms in to grab under the Doctor's armpits.

The liquid itches and tingles across Rory's skin. It's thinner than water and has an unsettling texture. The Doctor isn't moving well. He doesn't seem to be trying to swim or get out. Rory hauls him out with difficulty. Amy helps. The Doctor keeps shouting:

"Don't touch it! Get out of it! Don't touch it!"

Rory lays him flat on his back. The Doctor doesn't resist. The Time Lord's body is like poseable plastic: stiff, but accepting of any form. Rory's own arms are starting to feel weird.

"Rory, my hands…" says Amy. She's staring in horror at her fingers. "I can't move them."

Rory attempts to examine the Doctor with arms like dead branches. He keeps moving through sheer stubborn force of will. He tries to check the Doctor's pulse but it's impossible to manoeuvre his fingers into the right position, to hold them against the Doctor's skin. He manages for a moment, feels a rapid fluttering, but then his hand slides out of position and he can't right it.

"How are you?" Rory asks the Doctor.

"Paraleashed…lized, you?"

"Same. Doctor, did you get any in your mouth?"

"Tongues sti waking iddint it?"

"Not well. Any trouble breathing?"

"Mmm… bid. Not shupposed be deadly. Meant for containmend. Bid umcomfortabish bud shudent kill me."

"Shouldn't is very reassuring."

Rory can feel his hands perfectly. He looks at his fingers. They're perfect, they should move. He can't even twitch them now. Everything below his elbow on his left arm just _doesn't work_. On his right arm it goes up to his shoulder. He can pose the joints by leaning them against the floor, but all natural movement has been cancelled out. Amy's hands are dead too. How long will they be like this? There are no guards, but how can they escape when they can't even turn a door knob?

"Shud be tempory," the Doctor slurs. "Shud be… Ama, Roorr… you need to do wud we came here to…"

"How can we do it without hands?" Amy asks. "How long until it wears off? How long until we can move again? Until you can move again?"

The Doctor opens his mouth but doesn't answer. It is clear that he cannot. His lips stay half parted, stuck. His eyes roll back and forth between his companions. His body is still. Rory watches his chest to see if it can still expand and contract; air in, air out. He can't tell. The Doctor's sodden jacket is blocking the view. It looks heavy. The buttons are an impossible obstacle.

"Will it be soon?" Amy asks quietly, clutching her dead hands across her chest. "Right for yes and left for no. Will it be soon?"

The Doctor's eyes roll slowly, reluctantly to the left.

"Will it be hours?" Amy asks.

The Doctor continues looking to the left.

"Will it… will it be days?" Rory asks.

A brief, unhappy glance to the right.

"How many days?" asks Amy.

Four blinks. A pause. The Doctor winks one eye slowly.

Four and a half days.

Amy and Rory sit uselessly. The Doctor continues blinking. It takes Rory far too long to realize that there is a pattern to the blinks; that the Doctor is communicating in code. By the time that Rory has realized what the Doctor is trying to explain the man in the plaid smoking jacket has reappeared, along with several other men (women?) in full body armour. The words "Privatera Police Hire" are stamped across their curved black face plates. Using both hands, Amy clasps the Doctor's sonic from where it rolled when he fell and secrets it into her bra before it can be confiscated.

The alarm and the flashing lights abruptly shut off. The hole in the floor closes up and the man in the plaid smoking jacket and his hired police walk across. One of the armoured newcomers raises a strange device. A scarlet beam sweeps over Amy, Rory and the Doctor.

"Two humans, one xeno," an armoured man (it is a man's voice) announces.

"Is it one of mine?" the man in the plaid smoking jacket asks in his thin reedy voice. He has put on a shirt, slicked his hair back, done up his belt, and utterly forgot about his still gapping trousers. "Who are these people? They're snitches aren't they? Stole a pass card to sell some to the tabloids?"

"The xeno isn't tagged. Inconclusive identity readings for all three." The armoured man sounds shocked. "They aren't news. They don't have chips. They're off the radar."

"Might as well be xenos themselves…" the man in the plaid smoking jacket muses.

Rory finishes reading the last of the Doctor's blinked message; his badly bungled excuse for a plan. Subtly as he can manage with his unresponsive limbs, he takes a few items out of the Doctor's pocket as instructed. It isn't noticed. The items seem to slip out and into his sleeves without effort; like they're being magnetically drawn. Rory exhales a shaky breath and looks up at the man in the plaid smoking jacket and his armoured goons. He introduces himself:

"Hello, I'm Rory, this is my wife Amy, and on the floor here is our best friend the Doctor. You must be the unimaginable bastards we've come to stop. Forgive me for not shaking your hand but mine doesn't seem to be working at the moment. "

The man in the plaid smoking jacket starts giggling.

Rory stares at him with the calm rage of centuries. The man continues giggling.

"What is it?" asks Amy, "Why's he laughing? What's he laughing at?"

"You," says the man. "You're very funny. Here I thought you were coming to take some dirty photos, billed up the police and everything, but you're not news. You're not members. You want to stop something? What is there to stop? Why are you here?"

"To stop you," says Rory.

"To stop…? To stop what?"

"This," says Amy.

The man leans his head to the side as if calculating a difficult problem. He looks genuinely surprised. "Don't tell me you're xeno sympathizers? Who does that? Welcome to my home then Rory and his lovely wife Amy. I'd have fun killing you, but…" he nods at his hired goons, "there are so many moral objections raised with murders, so much paperwork to fill out and inquiries and it's just a _headache_! I mean, after I saw you I raised the alarm and here are the police and everything."

"But your friend… he looks human, but he isn't… no moral objections there. Might get extra dollar to sport him to the scientists, but I think I'd prefer to do this examination myself. Maybe invite over a few friends, make a party of it. You're both of course invited. It's only polite since you've brought the entertainment. Guests of honour! You'll get your own special… "The man giggles, "Chairs."

"You're sick," Amy says.

"And you're intruders. You don't have to accept my offer. I could hand you over to the regular law enforcement. Or… I could field off inquiries and fill out paperwork."

On the floor, the Doctor adds a few more blinks to his message. Rory's throat tightens.

"Understood," he says. "We accept your invitation."

"Marvellous!" the man in the plaid smoking jacket claps his hands. "My name is Marnick II and I welcome you both to my home. Well, I say my home, it's more of a shared clubhouse really, but I am the legal owner of the premises. I _do_ hope you both enjoy your visit."

Marnick II nods to his assembled police officers. "Sorry about the ring boys, it's turned out to be a false alarm. I'll pay double for the inconvenience as per our agreement. Though, I do feel terribly unsafe, shaken even. I'm sure my guests and I would feel far more secure if perhaps one or two of you could stay on for the next few days. Just for peace of mind you understand."

"It's perfectly understandable, sir," one of the armoured men says. Rory can't tell if it's the one who spook before. They have no individually identifiable features. "I'll call it down to the station on my way back. Jeggins, Harwick, you're on party watch, enjoy yourselves."

"Yes, sir!" snap out two of the armoured men. The rest of the armoured force dismiss themselves in a tidy line down the hall. Marnick II smiles.

"Now come this way and let me show you your accommodation. There is _ever_ so much to plan!"

Reluctantly, Rory and Amy follow the giggling maniac down the corridor into a twisting maze of white corridors, bad elevator music, and bolted doors. Jeggins and Harwick walk meaningfully beside them preventing retreat or disagreement.

Behind them, the Doctor is left alone paralysed and rasping for air on the cold tile floor.

*  
Amy and Rory find themselves led to small room with a heart shaped bed and handcuffs on the wall. It smells like bleach with a faint undertone of piss. The wallpaper and the carpet are dark and covered with rippling, garish patterns.

The hired police, Jeggins and Harwick stand in the doorway. Marnick II whispers something to one of the pair and he/she leaves, presumably to attend to the Doctor. Rory contemplates his odds for overpowering the remaining guard and finds them poor. Man against man in armour rarely ends well.

"This… pet of yours, what can you tell me about it?" Marnick II asks.

"He's the Doctor," says Amy. She's geared up for a fight. Marnick II seems to sense it and keeps close to his remaining goon.

"Yes, you told me that before, I really don't care."

"He's a Time Lord," says Rory. "And you should be frightened."

"I don't care what species it is. I want to know what I can do with it. For instance, I don't think it would be a good candidate for the fight rings. It's not really exotic enough to appeal to the perverts, though I suppose… g'diitchda paralysis is technically illegal to affect upon a human partner. Do you think…?" He trails off, fluttering his hands at Amy and Rory's horror. "No, you're right of course. This is my party and I'll set the theme, and I've always preferred scientific pursuits to more carnal pleasures."

"Scientific pursuits?" Amy spites out. "You don't care who his is, where he's from, why he's here — and you're calling it scientific?"

Marnick II's fluttering hands come together, fingers interweaving. He clasps them by the base of his throat. "I care to learn how he works, isn't that enough? I have a great love of aesthetics. I enjoy viewing the various components of the natural world, or, in this case, worlds. And I do love a good show. It's why my clubhouse has the top ranking; I always find the most interesting subjects for my displays."

"He's not a subject. He's not a display," says Amy. "He's our friend."

"He's a xeno," says Marnick II, "and I think you'll find that no one cares."

*

Once they are alone, Rory tells Amy the plan. He shakes out the hastily stolen items he hid in his sleeve. She manages to dig the sonic out of her bra, using her dead hands like paws. They avoid the bed. There are stains on the sheets which neither of them want to think about.

They sit by the door and contemplate the door knob which they cannot use.

"We abandoned him," says Amy.

"He told us to go," says Rory. "There was nothing we could do. He has a plan. It's a terrible plan, but it is a —"

"We abandoned him," says Amy.

"We abandoned him," Rory agrees flatly.

*  
Days pass. Marnick II makes sure to attend meals with Amy and Rory on a regular basis. He makes sure that the menu consists of finger foods — ribs and ice cream cones and fish fingers which reduce Amy to tears — and various soups and stews and porridges which Rory refuses to lap up like an animal; not with Marnick II watching and smirking and waiting for them to cave.

He tells them about the experiments he has performed on the Doctor during his spare time. He speaks vaguely about the big spectacle which he has planned.

He tells them that their paralysis is permanent.

Rory and Amy steel themselves and hide in silence. They try not to remember how often the Doctor lies.

*  
On the evening of the fourth day Marnick II has a servant helps Amy and Rory dress. Amy is given a dark red dress with a shockingly low v-cut neck line. Rory is given a black and white tuxedo which reminds them both of the Doctor. They both whisper urgently to the servant, a young woman with long, freckled fingers. She pretends to be deaf.

When they are ready Marnick II fetches them.

"Tonight's the night!" he says, rubbing his hands together. "And I've got you two to thank for it. You wouldn't believe how many members bought tickets. I'm not sure if it's your pet's unique appearance or his healing abilities but the sales are right through the roof. The productions I'll be able to afford thanks to this —"

"You should be terrified," says Amy.

Marnick II licks his lips nervously. He seems briefly uncertain before snapping back into himself. His two hired police stand by his sides. He is secure. He is in control. "Follow me!" he says to Amy and Rory. "You've got the place of honour."

He leads them down a twisting corridor to a huge room they haven't seen before. It's set up like an old fashioned theatre. Velvet-backed chairs are lined in orderly rows to face a small stage area. The curtains, thick and maroon, are currently closed. Marnick II leads Rory and Amy to the front row. The last few seats have been ripped up. Their mooring are still visible under the bulk of the two new seats which have been haphazardly installed in their place.

"Special chairs," explains Marnick II, giggling. "I had a brainwave and I just had to follow it. It took some string pulling and late night special ordering to get them done on time. Custom built, just for you!"

The "special chairs" don't have any visible restraints. They look like coin-operated massage chairs without the electronic attachments; big and weirdly lumpy, but not overtly dangerous. Amy and Rory sit down nervously, glaring at their mad host.

"Oh, you don't have to be so glum about it. I promise that they're comfortable." Marnick II looks up over their heads. "Jeggins, Harwick this is a private showing for friends. You can go on break for the duration if you wish."

Amy and Rory exchange a wary glance.

"Comfortable until we try to get up, I wager," says Amy. "Where do the handcuffs attach?"

"No handcuffs, no restraints, I assure you. Besides I highly doubt you could work the door mechanism in your present condition."

"Maybe so," Rory acquiesces, "but I could still over power you. You've sent the guards away. Why?"

"You wouldn't do that! We're all friends here."

"You think we're friends —" Amy pushes herself up and out the chair. There is a strange hissing-squealing noise. It doesn't come from the chair. It doesn't seem to come from anywhere, but it makes Amy's skin crawl and her stomach clench into a bad worry knot. She sits back down.

"I wouldn't stand up if I were you," Marnick II sing-songs.

"Why not? What do these chairs do?" Amy asks.

Marnick II smiles. "Nothing to you. Quite a nasty shock to him."

He turns to the stage and spreads his arms wide. A pair of spotlights flashes on. They circle in a wild dance before landed on the centre of the stage where the dark purple curtains meet. Under the harsh stage light the fabric is the colour of a clotted, half-crusted scab. Tinny-sounding orchestral music filters into the theatre. It's a grand and dramatic number.

Slowly, the curtains open.

"Doctor!" Amy and Rory cry out at the same time.

There is no response.

The Doctor is posed on his knees in the middle of the stage. His frozen face is upturned towards stage right. His arms are spread forward imploringly. He is nearly naked. His clothing has been stripped away and replaced with dull white cloth wound around his waist. The stage is dark but for one high mounted light beaming down on the Doctor's begging hands, turning his whole body into a study of light and shadow. His torso is covered in thin, fresh scars. They make patterns and letters and strange, brutal hieroglyphs.

There are wings strapped to his back.

The thick leather straps attaching them under the Doctor's arms and across his chest are clearly visible. The wings themselves are huge, looming over the Doctor's head. They are white. The sharp light picks out the detail of each exquisitely crafted feather. It is a startlingly beautiful scene.

It is not what Amy and Rory expected to see. The shock wears off quickly. The beauty is monstrous. The stage background consists of a giant screen showing the spectacle from multiple angles in huge, high definition. It shows that there is sweat standing out all over the Doctor's body. His outstretched arms are trembling. The wings must weigh twenty kilograms. And there is a wire, a very thin wire, overshadowed at first by the drama of everything else.

The wire snakes out from the wooden stage floor, coils slightly, and then plugs directly into the Doctor's left leg. It is visible under the skin for a short ways up his calf before plunging deeper into the muscle. Whenever Amy or Rory move the Doctor's leg twitches, the paralysed muscle shocked temporarily into life.

"We're here Doctor," Amy says as reassuringly as she can. "We're safe." She fixes Marnick II with unflinching eyes and tells him: "You will be sorry for this."

"I know, I know," he says airly. "I've re-used all the props from my last production. Still. It is a pretty picture isn’t it? And you've got the advanced showing."

Marnick II snaps his fingers and the curtains close. "Now wait there patiently, I've just got a buzz in my coat that the rest of my guests have arrived. Don't stand up," he titters.

Marnick II skips away to the back of the theatre. Rory cranes his neck to watch him go. Amy faces forward, staring helpless at the curtains which conceal her tortured friend. She shifts her weight in the chair as if to get up and she hears the hissing-moan again. She settles and sits as still as possible. Her eyes prickle.

"Doctor, if you can hear us. We're following the plan still. We're safe. We're going to save you and stop this. Doctor, I'm sorry. Whatever they… it'll will be okay, Doctor. We'll make it okay."

At the back of the theatre Marnick II opens the doors and his other guests come in. They are all well dressed: old couples, young men in bachelor gaggles, women in cocktail dresses, disinterested children playing with their video phones.

They are human and they are coming to be entertained or they are coming to be polite or they are being dragged along unwillingly by parents who couldn't find last minute sitters, and it is so human, so disgustingly normal and human.

"Why are they doing this?" asks Amy. "Look at them! Half of them don't even want to be here. They don't care and why —"

The lights in the audience section of the theatre dim. The spotlights once again begin their crazy dance. The opening soundtrack tunes up. Once again the curtains open. The crowd oohs, ahhs, checks text messages, and makes whispered gossip.

The show begins.

*

The first act consists of the Doctor being forced into various humiliating poses by stage crew dressed as giant blue frogs. There is some kind of vague plot about the Doctor being a beautiful xeno who possesses many marvellous secrets which he refuses to share. It's not far off the truth, Amy thinks dully beneath her horror.

Colour-filtered lights storm back and forth the stage and the piped in music reaches a stormy crescendo. The giant frogs relieve the Doctor of his wings, tearing them off as great bursts of pyrotechnics flare on either side of the stage.

To Amy's right a guest murmurs that the show is, "extremely derivative".

"What do you expect with the turn around?" is the whispered reply. "Never mind, Marny's first acts are always stupid. The hands-on bit is next. Have you got a ticket?"

The curtains close on the Doctor posed in a wilted pile surrounded by his shredded wings. The lights in the audience area come up. People shift and stretch. A lucky few with tickets get up and excitedly head for a small door to the left of the stage.

"I can't take much more of this," says Amy.

Her hands are folded in her lap. Rory reaches across and gives them a clumsy squeeze.

"Almost," he says. "Not much longer."

*

The curtain opens on the second act.

The Doctor is on a metal slab, inclined for the viewing pleasure of the audience. His arms and legs are splayed but, other than a few loose ropes to counteract gravity, he is not strapped down. He is tired. The wire in his leg stings, itches, and occasionally leaps with blazing sparks. Briefly only. The shocks never last for long.

The Doctor looks out over the audience, but everything is darkness beyond the floodlights. He can heard people chattering away. It's just a day out. It's normal. It's fun. They have no idea the horrors they are causing, or if they do know they are completely desensitized to it.

The stage lighting is uncomfortably warm. The Doctor knows that in his position most would feel bare and exposed. He feels furious that this indignity has been inflicted on how many? How many? And then the fights and the sex chambers and the pay-for-torture rooms left open for card holding sadists. The experiments with no scientific backing but _just to see what happens_. Like children cutting worms in half in the sandbox, or pulling the legs off ants; the casual cruelty of it enrages him.

The audience members with tickets file onto the stage. The Doctor can only see them from the corners of his eyes. He can't turn his head. They are circling his table like vultures.

They've covered up their theatre finery with long lab coats and latex gloves. Marnick II is the first to lean over the Doctor. He's holding a scalpel. The music is quiet, building tension towards the first slice.

The Doctor supposes he should be scared. He is scared. He's terrified and helpless and exposed and he knows that this is really going to hurt.

But he also knows that he is going to win.

With great difficultly, he smiles.

*

Around Rory and Amy the audience lean forward in their chairs. A few are still thumbing away at phones or portable colouring books, but most are watching the stage with hushed expectation. Marnick II explains that the first experiment of the night will consist of a simple revelation of anatomy — "very educational for our younger audience members."

This is to be followed by electronic stimulus of the musculature and an internal probing to show "the wonders of this fine xeno's mysterious depths, for he may look human on the surface, but I assure that the true form is revealed beneath. And he is nothing but another dumb, witless xeno to be explored."

Amy and Rory breathe hard with restrained fury. Amy's hands clench loosely. Almost. Almost. Rory stares fixedly at the stage as he fumbles with his blunt, uncooperative fingers. He has the screwdriver which Amy thought to grab. He has the bits of wire and glass that the Doctor blinked at him to take out of his pocket. He has the plan, though, having seen this cruel-disinterested audience, Rory doesn't know if this will work.

He doesn't have the Doctor's faith in humanity. He sees the small, strained smile up on the view screen and prays that it won't be betrayed.

Marnick II is done announcing. The music swells. The blade descends and Rory's eyes are trapped by the zoom in-views the background screen is giving. The close-ups on the Doctor's terrified eyes imploring the audience to stop and think about what they're doing. The smell of blood welling up over the front row, enhanced by the heat of the stage lights. The exact, practiced cut that Marnick II uses to split the Doctor's chest from the dimple of his neck to the base of his groin.

The audience cheers.

Carefully, Marnick II makes two more incisions perpendicular along the top and bottom of the first cut. Carefully, he pulls back the skin, tugging slightly and using his knife to gently slice the connective tissue. Carefully, the ticket holders on stage step forward to observe and prod at the massive wound. Muscles like an anatomy text book, but subtly different in their alien-ness, are revealed to the theatre.

Rory swallows rapidly. He finds motion in his right thumb and uses it to grip and push down. Beside him Amy manages to unclench her hand and use the heel of her palm to press the broadcast button.

She talks rapidly: "This is a live-feed of a science show being conducted for the rich and privileged card holding members of the Mar-Tek Showland Clubhouse. The man you are seeing on stage has been paralyzed with a g'diitchda bath. He is fully conscious and has…" Amy pauses to gulp for air. The Doctor's strangled whimpers cut across the theatre.

"…Has not been given analgesics or sedatives of any kind. He is being dissected, alive, for the pleasure of the audience, and… oh god. If you're watching this. If you have any heart at all. Please _stop this_ before it's too late. He's my friend. He's my best friend and they're torturing him and they think it's okay because he's different. How can this be okay?"

On stage, one of the ticket holders cuts off a strand of muscle and displays it, wet and gleaming on the end of his knife, to the audience. The Doctor moans. His skin has gone grey under the lights. His eyes are half shut. The bastards on stage dig around at his insides and how — how can he survive this? How much more will they — ?

Marnick II holds up one of the Doctor's arms, the hand is jerked back at the wrist by the loose restraint. The background screen zooms in on the faint scars running from shoulder to elbow. Marnick II explains that this xeno has an advance capacity for healing; that these cuts were made only hours before. He wields his scalpel again and reopens the wounds. Blood makes its way out, first in droplets and then in a steady flow over the pale skin. Marnick II leans down and licks the blood. Some members of the audience shift in their seats and make uncomfortable noises.

Judging the reaction, Marnick II wipes the blood from his lips. "I apologize," he tells the audience. "I'd forgotten this was an open production. Must mind the children."

"He's my best friend," Amy repeats. "He's one of the best men I've ever known. He saved me when I was a little kid, and yeah, he makes mistakes and has messed my life up a bit, okay, a lot. But he also made it wonderful and he has given up _so much_ to keep other people safe. He's only here…" Amy gnaws her lip, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to reach out to the souls of whoever was watching this hijack broadcast. Assuming they had souls. "He's only here because he wanted to help."

Rory clenches the sonic between his knees and uses both hands to clumsily twist a dial. He nods at Amy.

"What you're seeing now is a disposal cell elsewhere in the facility. These are the bodies of the xenoes which have been used for entertainment purposes by the Showland Clubhouse. They are left here when they are no longer deemed "amusing". Most are incinerated; a few are turned into taxidermy souvenirs. Notice that they aren't all… they aren't all dead. These are living creatures. They aren't human. They aren't from Earth. They're lost and far from home and they look for help and what kind of, how, why is this allowed to happen?"

Rory twists the dial again. His fingers are getting looser, freer.

"Electrical stimulation!" Marnick II shouts to the audience.

More wires are pressed into the Doctor's limbs, into his flayed chest. The wires touch and then leap forward. They burrow inwards, length of them coiling in and disappearing. The Doctor jerks. His mouth and eyes stretch open. There is no sound.

"See how the different muscle groups react!"' Marnick giggles. "Using these new techniques, a subdued xeno can be played like a puppet without the need for crew."

There is a horrible buzz that creeps in just below the threshold of conscious hearing. The Doctor sits jerkily upright, his arms pulled back by the loose ropes. His feet skitter against the edge of the table. The music is suddenly a comic kazoo dance. The ropes are cut off. The Doctor thrashes off the table. Marnick II holds him upright and the pair dance.

Blood smears across Marnick's labcoat as he twirls his stumbling rigid partner back and forth across the stage. The ticket holders on stage with him line up and clap. The audience joins the beat.

"This xeno has _two_ hearts," Marnick II informs the audience. The background screen is suddenly filled with a cut-away view of the Doctor's body, of two hearts beating in a steady alternating rhythm. "My hypothesis is that this is a survival mechanism developed to keep the xeno alive if one heart should happen to fail. Should this theory be tested?"

The audience doesn't debate. Several yell out "Yes! Yes, test this!" They are bored and hungry for entertainment. They watch with greedy eyes. They are disconnected from what is happening. It's only a damn show to them.

The hearts on the background screen falters. The one on the right skitters and stops.

"He is _alive_ ," Amy shouts into her broadcast mic. A few nearby guests look at her strangely. Most don't notice. "And they're killing him in this, this, what is WRONG WITH YOU ALL!" she shouts. She leaps to her feet and hates herself for the pain she knows it will cause, but he's already, and they're about to, and she has to stop it.

"You've got your _children_ with you. Is this what you want them to learn? That it's okay to torture people because they're different?"

The audience looks at her dumbly. They don't understand. One cheers half-heartedly, like she's part of the show.

"This is sick!" Amy screams at them. "You're all sick."

"Sit DOWN!" yells Marnick II from the stage, holding the Doctor in a ghastly embrace, Time Lord blood spattered all down his front. "You will _not_ interrupt the entertainments!"

"And you're the sickest of them all!" says Amy. "Let him go!"

She gets up and rushes over. She climbs the stage. The ticket holders stare at her, stunned.

"Stop this!" she yells. "Please. Think of what you're doing."

Rory twists the dial and the background screen is suddenly awash in images of death, and then images of the audience sitting passively watching the spectacle.

"Is this who you are?" Amy asks. "Is it?"

Marnick II throws the Doctor away and launches himself at Amy.

"You _bitch_. You're ruining the show. What are you getting out of this? You're from another clubhouse aren't you? _Aren't you_? I should've known that the whole xeno-loving bit was all an act."

"Unhand my wife!" Rory yells, leaping out of his seat. He jumps onto the stage and tackles Marnick II to the ground. He punches him repeatedly, letting out his pent up rage.

"Rory…" a weak voice stops him. He looks up to see the Doctor, crumpled on the ground, barely propping himself up with one arm. The Time Lord has a funny half smile. "If you want the people to listen… not that he doesn't deserve it."

"You should die for what you've done," Rory hisses at Marnick II. He looks at the audience. "You all should!"

The audience murmurs. It's become clear to them that this isn't part of the show. They are uncomfortable. They are dangerous. This is a new situation. They don't know how to navigate it. They don't know who will come out the other side with tarnished reputations and who will —

"You're right!" says an older man in the fourth row. Whether it is self-preservation or a suddenly realized conscience doesn't matter. It starts a ripple.

Marnick II senses the changing tide and scrambles backwards off the stage into the dressing rooms. Most of the ticketholders cut and run after him. A few, including the one who had cut bits from the Doctor and proudly shown them to the audience minutes before, step apologetically forward. They offer to help.

Rory ignores them. He ignores his rage at them because _of course they want to help now that it's cool._ And he ignores the other part of his mind telling him that they don't have to help: _They could run, they could arrest us, they could attack us with their knives just like they —_

Rory examines the Doctor instead. He slips into a clinical composure. The Time Lord is crashing. He is grey and clammy and the massive flaps of his chest hang open over a bloody mess. But his thoracic cavity wasn't breached and his breathing may be rapid and shallow but it isn't moist. Nothing has flooded. One blessing. But it can't be closed with everything coming out and Rory's not looking forward to removing the wires.

"It looks bad," the Doctor says, gripping Rory's hand clumsily. "It _feels_ bad, but it's not bad-bad, it's bad, but it will be better. I'm not dying. But it isn't good. It is very not good. Rory…"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"It really hurts."

*

Amy tells the ticket holders and the audience members looking to redeem themselves that there are others in worse shape in the Clubhouse tunnels, down in the holding cells, in the pay rooms, and the disposal area. She tells them to free the people they have tortured.

"The people?" one asks.

"The _people_ ," Amy tells them. And it burns in her throat that at least half of them nod blankly not making the connection that behind their slurs and games there are people being hurt and _dying_. They want to stop it now, but only because everyone else does.

Armoured figures with the words "Privatera Police Hire" stamped across their helmets burst into the stage. It is a tense moment until one raises a loud speaker:

"We are under pay and direction of the private citizens of Xanat State. This entertainment venue is now closed. Those who have participated in staging this venue are now under arrest."

Medical staff burst in behind them and it is a blur, an absolute blur. Amy crouches beside her husband, over the Doctor who is smiling his ridiculous old man smile. His hair is slicked down across his grey skin and his hands are shaking but they are moving under his own power. And he is smiling.

"Good old humanity," he says. "Doing the right thing."

*

He's talking. He's saying it's all turned out fine. He's lying and not lying and it hurts and he's not dying. That would've been the finale, but Marnick II wasn't risking the climax coming too soon. Would've ruined the show.

It hurts and he should be unconscious by now. That's how it's supposed to go: say something meaningful and pass out, wake up later and drift on a lazy haze of analgesics. He should be in a healing trance but his body refuses to slow down. Must be a side effect of the g'diitchda wearing off.

Amy, Rory, I'll fight for you. Everyone, I'll do… I'll do… I'll do… something. Did it always hurt this much to have both hearts going? Just. It's all hazy now at least. One thing. But you're human.

Rory is trying again to examine and there are medics and they _are here to help you stupid Doctor_. Don't flinch. Scream, but don't flinch. This isn't hurting on purpose this is. It is. What they're doing.

"I'm sorry, Doctor. Can you hear me? They have to come out. Doctor?"

It's ripping out. It's sliding out. Every inside part of him it attached to is pulling out. It's coiled up and covered and slick with his blood and the humans are staring at it. There's red in front of his eyes.

"Doctor, stay with us. Stay with us damn it. You are not going to…"

It's not betrayal. It's just what they do.

*

Enhanced healing or not, it takes the Doctor over a week to get back to a semblance of normal. During that time the Time Lord drives his companions half mad by popping up and wandering around the TARDIS, stumbling into things, reopening his stiches and generally being a very annoying patient.

Rory catches the Doctor staggering into a wall on his way to the swimming pool two days after the broadcast. At least, Rory assumes that's where the Doctor's headed because the Time Lord's in his swim trunks and has a giant pair of googles pushed up his forehead. The swim trunks, of course, have bowties on them. They're the same colour as the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around the Doctor's chest.

"And where exactly are you going?" Rory asks.

"Swimming," says the Doctor, confirming the obvious. "I love swimming. You get to —" He makes a breast stroke motion with his arms. "And you can —" He does a mock swan dive.

"You really are a complete idiot," Rory tells him. "Do I have to tie you to the bed or what?" He means it as a joke, but the Doctor wilts.

"I just want to move," the Doctor says quietly, looking at the floor. He leans heavily against the wall he'd stumbled into.

Rory takes his arm. "That was stupid, of me." He swallows. "I'll help you back to your room."

The Doctor nods and walks along beside him almost timidly and Rory wants to sink into the floor. Then the Doctor starts rambling about some tower with a swimming pool on top floor. Being a Doctor story, the pool has an evil death robot in it.

"...and everyone told her to _stay out of the pool_!" The Doctor finishes, waving his arm expansively.

The nurse in Rory worries about the excessive movement, the Roman in him sees straight through the Doctor's façade and resents being pandered to, the rest of Rory smiles because it's a ridiculous story and the Doctor is acting ridiculously, and that is exactly as it should be.

The stitched up flaps heal without a scar. The jerky, post-drug and electrocution shamble lifts within a few days. The Doctor drinks vast amounts of tea and devours several boxes of jammy dodgers. Amy makes him fish fingers and custard and serves him in bed. She has to wear a poncho and so does Rory because the TARDIS is keeping the ambient temperature several degrees cooler than usual. That's good for injured Time Lords, apparently.

By and by, things return to normal.

Almost.

"How could they do it?" Amy asks the Doctor. "Why did they…?"

"Because," the Doctor says.

"But why?"

"They're human," the Doctor says.

"But I'm human," says Amy. "I wouldn't…"

"But you could," says the Doctor. "And you wouldn't. And they didn't, in the end. Everyone makes choices, but you need to see that there is a choice before you can make one. You need to recognize a wrong before you can make a right."

"But they…"

"Amelia Pond," says the Doctor, burying her in a hug. "They did the right thing."

_He's lying_ Amy thinks, holding on tight as he hugs her and hums a lullaby. _He's lying. He knows. He has to know. Nothing about that was right._

She looks at his eyes, hoping for an answer. But all she sees is the Doctor and whatever he's thinking is hidden behind that fact.

 

 

_fin_

 

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=43626>


End file.
